By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. And what was singular she did not recount to the doctor that morning's adventure. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. And the woollen-draper departed. She called them back very soon. ‘Pitiful.
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